


The Voice That Calls You

by Marinosepass, venomousOctopus



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post-Game, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 21:43:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marinosepass/pseuds/Marinosepass, https://archiveofourown.org/users/venomousOctopus/pseuds/venomousOctopus
Summary: Postcanon Sonya. Basically what happens in her ending elaborated on





	The Voice That Calls You

**Author's Note:**

> I had the idea for this and felt like it was too long for a Twitter thread like I usually do so I thought I'd try to write a fic, first time writing a fic so please tell me what you think, thanks anna venomousoctopus for betaing it and helping with my formatting

“Oh... It seems so...obvious now. I should have just lived...as I pleased...like you...”

Sonya jolted awake in a cold sweat. She had been plagued with nightmares for years, but after the war they only seemed to get worse rather than better. Her sister's words haunted her ever since the showdown with Duma, and she had decided the only way her sisters could truly be at rest was by making sure no one would ever have to share their fate. She had read through nearly every book in the Zofian, now United Valentia’s, Royal Library, trying to find any hint on a cure for Witchhood. In her studies, she had come across a weathered tome that told of a nation far south called ‘Jugdral’, and it’s history. Jugdral had once been under the control of a Dark God, called Loptyr, much like Rigel had, except the God had the entire continent under its grasp. 

She had read through the book dozens of times: of the so called ‘Miracle of Darna’ and the defeat of the Dark God, as well as the story of it’s return many years later and how it was once again defeated in a grand Holy War. The book told of a cult of people in a place called the ‘Yied Desert’ who worshipped said God, many receiving power without becoming fully possessed. After much deliberation she made plans to set off to Jugdral and see if the Loptyr Cult perhaps knew how to free one from the grasp of a Dark God. How different could Duma and Loptyr be after all?

Sonya sat up in bed and hugged her knees. Her bags were packed and she was ready to set off. She had been planning this for many months and none could convince her otherwise, if there was anyone left to even convince her. Even when they all were celebrating the death of Duma back then, the two armies sharing tales and drinks over a hearty feast, she kept to herself, letting her young friend Genny enjoy herself with her friends. While she appreciated their company, she couldn’t bring herself to truly trust many.

Of course, she hadn’t told Genny or Celica where she was going. All she told them was that she was going on a journey of sorts, to which they gave their blessing. They were unsure but they trusted her judgement. Sonya could sense they were uneasy, but her mind was set.

She got up from her bed and dressed herself. She took pride in her appearance, adorning herself in ornate jewelry and uncomfortable yet stylish heels. (After all, if beautiful women don’t celebrate their beauty, the entire human race loses out.) She had to catch a ship from Zofia port that would travel for many weeks all the way to Jugdral, far in the south. She packed lightly, very little besides food and a few changes of clothes, along with some robes should her usual gaudy outfit draw too much attention in her travels.

Sonya picked up her knapsack, stepped through the door, and looked back at the room she had been staying at. Something had caught her eye and she briskly walked toward her bedside table. On it was a portrait of her and her sisters when they were young. She held it to her chest and carefully placed it in her bag. She only hoped they were looking down at her from wherever their spirits were resting, whether it be with Duma or with Mila. She’d had enough of the gods herself for a lifetime.

 

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Sonya looked out at the sea. The air was warm and humid, and she could smell the salty breeze. Growing up in Rigel she never thought she’d experience this kind of climate herself. Her thoughts turned to Genny, her young friend, a simple girl who was always making up elaborate stories in her head and writing them in a journal she had always kept with her. She would’ve loved this feeling, Sonya lamented, of being on the boat, surrounded by nothing but the ocean. 

She laughed thinking about how they were when they first met. At first, the poor girl was scared of Sonya. Sonya always respectfully kept her distance, the poor thing was just so...simple. Quiet. She reminded her of herself when she was younger, and so the maternal instincts she thought she never had kicked in. 

Later on she had found out that to Genny, Sonya reminded her of her mother who had abandoned her at a Priory. That struck a nerve with Sonya, having had her father abandon her and her sisters as well. Had she become like her father? A fear she had always put to the back of her mind had resurfaced. She told her story to the young cleric, who listened intently without interrupting, and explained that if she were in the same situation she’d react the same, if not worse, and more violently.

After that they had warmed up to each other and became friends, bonding over their shared experiences. Terrible experiences, but experiences nonetheless. She sends Genny letters every once in awhile, telling her how her travels are going. She couldn’t help but feel like she was now just like her elder sisters, stuck in the past, and Genny is her, young and full of hope.

Funny how time has a habit of repeating itself.

In their youth, both her sisters constantly held hope that their father, if he could even be called that would return. Sonya on the other hand, had resented him. She enjoyed her life with her sisters, and she could never see why they so desperately clung to the hope of his return back then. Now she feels she could understand them, just a little; after all, how is she any different? Just like them, she clings to the past, to thoughts of her sisters and what used to be instead of moving forward with her life. Can she ever really move forward? Even after this journey?

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“Do you really...hate Father so...? Such lost...misguided children...”

Sonya awoke. Another nightmare. She looked out the window of the inn she was staying at and saw snow piling up outside. The climate of Silesse was very similar to that of Rigel, so it almost felt like home. Of course, thoughts of home were just as bitter as they were sweet, unhappy memories were dredged up just as much as happy ones.

Growing up in the Priory with her sisters was nice. There were other children in the priory, many abandoned by Duma Zealot parents just as Sonya and her sisters were. Hell, one of them ended up in the army of ‘King’ Alm, a woman not much older than Sonya by the name of Tatiana. She didn’t seem to recognize her in the post-war celebrations, but Sonya supposed she was very different than she was in her childhood.

Sonya had fond memories of growing up in the Priory. Memories of tending to a little garden with her sisters, of Marla scolding her and Hestia whenever they’d misbehave. Her and Hestia would run around and climb trees, coming home to scraped knees and asking their big sister for forgiveness while she tended to their wounds. 

Marla was strict and fastidious, taking the role of their mother who they lost early. She carried herself with a sense of poise, even when they were all young. Though she was stern, her sisters always knew she loved them. Each year on their birthdays, Marla would wake up before the sun had even risen to prepare them their birthday breakfasts. They’d awake to their sister scolding them for sleeping in, only to find an elaborate and delicious breakfast. Marla taught her what a mother’s love felt like.

Hestia was always a bit of a tomboy. Her hair would be cut short as to not get in her way, and she never valued beauty as much as Sonya had. She was studious but still loved the outdoors. Her and Sonya would play outside for hours, catching bugs and playing pretend, even practicing magic on occasion. They’d come home and Marla would scold them for dirtying their habit robes, and fuss over every knick and scratch. Hestia was proud of her power and intended to hone it, and she had always encouraged Sonya’s gift.

From the beginning the three had a gift for magic, but Sonya was the most talented. Maybe it was because she was free from the mental shackles Jedah had burdened her sisters with, Maybe she was just born lucky. Considering the unfortunate events of her life, she would argue otherwise.

She opened the window and let the frigid air flow in. It felt more comfortable that way. The map, along with the various people she’d asked along the way all told her to just continue Southeast and she’d reach the Yied Desert. Being in the heart of Silesse she had quite a ways to go.

Sonya had read of the history of Silesse. It was a wonderful nation of culture, with stories of a Bard King named Lewyn who was once meant to rule the kingdom, and how he had been possessed by their native dragon god-crusader. In a way, Silesse was a mesh of Zofia and Rigel. It’s a beautiful place and Sonya wishes she could stay to enjoy it. The warm reception from the people contrasting the cold climate was very different from her home of Rigel, a nation that valued strength above all.

She turned to her nightstand to a letter she had received from Celica, unopened. Sometimes she wished Celica had chosen to attack her back then, instead of the myrmidon who worked alongside her under Grieth. Hell, sometimes she wished Celica had just executed her instead of letting her join. But Celica was too kind for that, as she soon found out. Was she more deserving of life than Deen? she sometimes wonders. 

She supposes one more regret is just a drop in the bucket, a cynical view but a realistic one.

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A lot of Sonya’s travels were on foot, much to her dismay. Walking down dirt paths in heels was no easy feat, but she isn’t one to give up looking good for the sake of practicality. Growing closer to her destination, she was now in the south of Silesse walking through a small village in the area. She stuck out like a sore thumb as always.

The people of Jugdral as a whole seemed to be very happy, a testament to King Seliph’s legacy. Wherever she went, people were happy to tell stories of the king and how much better he made their lives under his rule. She walked past some children playing pretend, one was wielding a wooden stick, holding it as if it was the holy Tyfring itself. The other was throwing rocks his way pretending he was wielding the tome Loptyr.

The sun was high in the sky and she let the warmth wash over her. She was out of the cold of northern Silesse and closer to the border between it and Yied. She briefly wondered what she’d do when she finally reached the Yied Desert. Were the cultists still there? Did they still worship Loptyr? Would they even be willing to help her, and if she found herself in a difficult situation would she be able to get out safely? No one even knew she was here, to the best of her knowledge. 

She quickly shoved those thoughts to the back of her head.

 

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She got into the Yied Desert shrine fairly easily, probably too easily, but at this point Sonya couldn’t afford to question such things. They had promised her an audience with their Dark God, which should have been a warning sign, but it was far too late to turn back. She will find the cure for witchhood, whatever the cost. 

The shrine could barely be called a shrine. Truth be told, it was more like an ant farm: countless dark underground stony passages, all of them near impossible to tell apart and connected by bare living areas and altars for prayer. She briefly wondered how the denizens of the Yied Shrine could even tell the paths apart, especially considering it was nearly pitch black with only a small lantern to light the way.

Her companion was an older man, hunched over in dark green robes. He walked slowly but with confidence, knowing each bump and rock by memory. Sonya towered over him in her heels, which were now scuffed and dirtied from this unfortunate underground hike. She lamented the thought of having to get a new pair when she got out- well, if she got out rather. She was confident enough in her magic to be able to fight her way out should anything go wrong, but finding her way out is a completely different story. She sighed audibly but the man leading her didn’t seem to react or care for that matter.

After what seemed like hours of walking through dark passages, occasionally passing another robed figure or two, the man ushered Sonya into a brightly lit room with high ceilings. Church pews lined the room and at the center sat a tall obsidian statue of a terrifying dragon, it’s eyes set with rubies. She briefly wondered how much something like that would sell for, if she could even lug it out of this terrible place. The thought passed when she felt a chill wash over her. The statue seemed to radiate with dark energies, as if it had a hold on your very being. She shuddered a bit.

The man stood beside the statue and gestured for Sonya to stand in front of it. What was she supposed to do, talk to it? It all felt quite ridiculous. Looking at it, it filled the room with a sort of dread. It seemed to overpower her, dampening her resolve. Looking into it’s eyes she felt like she could lose herself in them. She had a compulsive urge to kneel before it, to pay it respects as if the obsidian form before her was the great dragon Loptyr itself and not some stone bauble.

The eyes glowed, filling the room with a kind of ancient power Sonya could never hope to understand, and wouldn’t want to regardless. A voice resonated in her head, a booming voice that seemed to know her better than she could ever hope to- one that had read the tapestry of her life in a fraction of a second but did not judge her.

The voice spoke in a simple but frank manner.. ‘I am Loptyr. You seek the power to free others from a life of servitude, but once one’s soul is sold, it cannot be returned.’

Sonya was at a loss. Was this whole journey for naught? Had her sisters found repose, even in death, or were they still serving Duma in the afterlife? She felt dread claw at the edge of her lungs, her hands feeling numb and not of her own as more thoughts bombarded her. Would she be able to see them again in death? Would she be able to feel Marla and Hestia’s embrace in the afterlife, or was even that taken from her? Her head was suddenly filled with voices, not her own or that of the Dark God, but voices that were all too familiar.

Marlas soft voice came first. ‘Dearest sister, we apologize for causing you so much grief in life. If only you had listened to father all those years ago, we could’ve all been together.’ Sonya was holding back tears, the priest had a knowing smile on as he watched her break down, her knees shaking as she still kneeled.

Hestia’s proud voice came next. ‘You can still join us, be with us and we can all be together forever. You, me, Marla, and even father. You can let go of your painful life and let someone else take the wheel.’ Sonya couldn’t take much more. The obsidian statue seemed to mock her, stoic and unmoving.

Were the voices even real, or was it the Dark God playing tricks on her? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. This isn’t what she went on the journey for. She always thought herself strong willed but with the voices of her long gone sisters whispering to her, she felt like a little girl again. She was a little girl who needed her sisters, at any price. The Dark God got what he wanted.

 

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Months passed. Sonya was drawn back to her home of Valentia and took up residence in what was once Nuibaba’s Mansion. She spent her days attacking any who drew close, empty, a shell of the woman she once was. They say that at night, you can hear the Witch of Fear Mountain, sobbing and crying out for her sisters, her cries carried by the wind throughout the land that was once Rigel. Every once in awhile a warrior will venture up the mountain to slay the witch, never to return. Some say the queen herself knew the witch. 

Most people steered clear from Fear Mountain, except for one young Saint who returned to the mountain once every year. She was the only person to ever go up Fear Mountain and return with her life. She would make a pilgrimage every year and make herself known to the witch, who never attacked her. She would take her by the hand and lead her up to her mountaintop mansion, where she would tell the witch stories of her life, tears streaming down both their faces. The witch never spoke, and only listened.

Every year she would return to see her old friend and speak to her, hoping her soul can be returned to her. The years pass and the saint grows old, and can no longer return to the mansion.

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There are many stories about what was once called ‘Fear Mountain’ in the nation of Valm. The stories differ from country to country, but the one common thread is the story of the witch that lives there and why no one ever goes. For some, a cautionary tale for children. For some, a genuine concern for travellers in the land that was once Rigel. But one thing is true, the witch still waits for her sisters and for the young saint, year after year, hoping they’ll return to see her.


End file.
